


The Beast Will Arrive in Time

by thattrainssailed



Series: In the Devil's Territory [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Alec, M/M, Not SUPER dark but absolutely darker than in canon, The OMC is an arbitrary demon, dark magnus, edom, prince of hell magnus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 20:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17629532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/pseuds/thattrainssailed
Summary: Magnus Bane’s throne is the colour of blood.It rises from the ground fully formed the day Magnus descends into Edom, gold eyes bright, indigo magic impossibly stark against the reds and oranges of the desert. He holds his head high as he crossed the sand, barely sparing a glance for the demons that hiss at the sight of him. One breaks from the voyeurist cluster, scrambles before the warlock and raises its hackles. The half-breed has no right to be here, to stride so imperiously through their home, towards their king. The demon’s throat has not yet ended its rumble before Magnus flicks his hand and sends the creature flying into a nearby oasis of molten glass. His footfalls do not hesitate for the screams.





	The Beast Will Arrive in Time

Magnus Bane’s throne is the colour of blood.

It rises from the ground fully formed the day Magnus descends into Edom, gold eyes bright, indigo magic impossibly stark against the reds and oranges of the desert. He holds his head high as he crossed the sand, barely sparing a glance for the demons that hiss at the sight of him. One breaks from the voyeurist cluster, scrambles before the warlock and raises its hackles. The half-breed has no right to be here, to stride so imperiously through their home, towards their king. The demon’s throat has not yet ended its rumble before Magnus flicks his hand and sends the creature flying into a nearby oasis of molten glass. His footfalls do not hesitate for the screams.

Asmodeus is overjoyed, of course - the prodigal son returned at last. The warlock is welcomed into the palace with open arms. The kingdom holds its breath as the father and son meet. When they emerge it is with an agreement.

A century of kingship for Magnus. Payment for a great favour.

The implication is clear. It is to be a trial, a test of Magnus’ suitability for the throne. The crowd of demons howls, bay at the loss of their ruler, however temporary. Asmodeus raises a hand in threat. Magnus’ fingers strike flame. The sounds ceases.

The arrangement is immediately enforced. The palace, ascending from the ground, constructed of the realm’s deep sand, shakes slightly as the two grasp hands and the power shifts, control seeping from the atoms of Asmodeus’ palms and into his son’s waiting skin. When they part, Magnus flexes his fingers before turning to the centre of the palace. He flicks his wrist, and the earth begins to groan. Sand screeches with effort as it rises and moulds against the air. Everything in the room tightens, squeezing, compressing, a quake of pressure pointing to the epicentre of the growing shape. The earth gasps as it is crushed until the orange of the dirt begins to shine a deep red, solid gem slowly spreading to cover the entire object. The entire process lasts only a minute. The straining air dissipates. Magnus lowers his hand and approaches his new throne. When he eases into the garnet seat, the palace sighes with the relief of its new king.

Magnus’ reign is akin to his father’s, yet at once milder and harsher. Asmodeus’ anger is quick, instantly acted on. He sees mistakes and wastes no time making his rage known, punishing ruthlessly and without discrimination. Magnus, on the other hand, shows selective mercy. He is patient. Prefers to wait out mistakes and watch them progress into disasters, shaking his head subtly as the damned grovel at his feet. On rare occasions he abstains from punishment, allows an attempt at redemption. The chance of benevolence serves to sharpen the blow of retribution. The burden of pathetic begging failing to garner sympathy.

It is after six months in his position that Magnus coaxes Alec down to Edom. The shadowhunter is at first reluctant to follow his warlock to the realm of demons, but loyalty wins out. The transition is far from smooth - angel blood amongst ravenous demons is more than a slight vulnerability. But Alec soon proves he can hold his own; Magnus’ subjects learn that any attempt on the king’s partner will earn them swift retribution. He is the only creature free from punishment under the new kingship: instead he receives crooning and gentle touches, deep kisses and private moments that shift every dune in the desert. Magnus’ position is clear. Alec Lightwood is Edom’s only precious thing. 

It is in this detail that Malphas finds himself contemplating when he approaches the throne. The summons were terse and direct, a fire message of just five words.  _ The king requests your presence _ . As a major demon, he is not so naive as to be ignorant of the reason. A summoning gone wrong, his attempts at tricking his conjurers leading to the destruction of half a block in London. Under Asmodeus the incident would perhaps have been met with amusement, but Magnus has a weakness for mortals. He is half human, after all.

The palace’s main room is bare. Darkened thresholds tease at other rooms, but this chamber consists only of red earth, covering the ground and crawling up to construct the walls. In the middle of it all is the red seat, built for one, currently occupied by two.

Magnus is in his usual state of extravagance. He’s covered in gold and jewels, glittering against his knuckles, shining against his deep skin as necklaces dangle against his chest, framed by the unbuttoned maroon shirt that barely keeps him decent. A black cloak hugs his shoulders and drapes over the seat of the throne. Its hem trails in the dirt, soil collecting in the delicate fabric, but Magnus pays it no mind. How could he, when he is so thoroughly distracted?

The shadowhunter is, physically, exactly what Malphas would have expected of the species. Tall, muscular, with a perpetual glare whenever he catches sight of a demon. His demeanour is one of ill temper and constant suspicion. When Raziel gave angel blood to the mortals, it apparently came with an infection of arrogance and hostility. They are a cold race, rarely showing affection even to one another, and certainly not offering mercy to any creature of hell. Thus, it is something of an absurdity to see such an apparently ideal specimen stretched out sideways across Magnus’ lap. They lean in close together, mouths barely separated as they converse, and sure enough as the shadowhunter ends a sentence, Magnus kills the space and kisses him. It’s filthy and open-mouthed, and Malphas is tempted to make his presence known, except he is unconvinced that his company would dissuade the two from their display. Magnus’ fingers tangle in Alec’s hair, tugging slightly, and the shadowhunter clutches at Magnus’ bicep. They remain like that for a long time, kissing slow and dirty, before Magnus raises his head. Alec’s eyes remain closed, dazed, but the king does not share the stupor. Instead, he looks directly ahead of him, cat eyes bright. Directly at Malphas.

“Approach,” he growls. The tenderness of his mouth was left on Alec’s lips.

Malphas realises he is still several metres from the throne, that his clawed feet halted involuntarily in the earth when he first gained a clear view of Magnus. They move reluctantly now. The chamber is silent as he approaches, broken only but the shifting of the sand, the ground giving way for his knees as he kneels before the throne. He bows his head. The room chills, and instantly he knows he has made another mistake.

“Look at me when I address you.”

He looks up. The chill creeps beneath his feathered limbs, stings his skin as it invades. Magnus’ hands betray no magic - they remain firmly in place, one on the arm of garnet, the other on the back of his shadowhunter’s neck. Alec has opened his eyes now, gaze following Magnus’ to rest emotionlessly on the demon before them. The warlock watches Malphas, and the gold of his eyes has changed. The colour is less molten, more white. Colder. Malphas shivers.

“It has come to my attention that you disrupted a summoning.”

Malphas hesitates. Magnus regards him. Waiting. The demon grasps in the silence for permission to speak until finally his tongue finds its way around words.

“The incident is true, your majesty, but I was not at fault. The mortal conjurers marked a rune incorrectly and it put the entire ritual as risk. I was merely the last-”

He stops as Magnus turns away from him and back to Alec. They’re looking at each other, Magnus petting the other man’s hair lightly. The pause brings him glaring back at Malphas.

“Is there a problem?”

“I- No, your majesty-”

“Then continue assist me in understanding why six mortal blocks are covered in magical residue.”

“The spell-” As soon as Malphas resumes his explanation, Magnus returns his attention to Alec. The shadowhunter smiles slightly and kisses his partner, met with an appreciative noise from the warlock. It’s a startling sound - Magnus rarely expresses satisfaction. Of course, the shadowhunter is a special case. Spoiled amongst the land of deprivation. Malphas takes a deep breath. “I suspected something was wrong with the summoning the moment I was called, and I didn’t want to stick around for any longer than I had to. I didn’t take the time to inspect every symbol involved! The mortals brought it upon themselves when they refused to check the accuracy-”

He’s cut off by a quiet moan as Magnus’ fingers trail under Alec’s shirt and around his hip, dipping into the back of his jeans. They don’t stray far beneath the material, but tease the small of his back. Alec’s own fingers toy with the necklaces covering Magnus’ torso, tugging on them slightly to bring the warlock ever closer. The other hand slides down bare brown skin, blunt nails scratching lightly, palms tracing over Magnus’ pectoral muscle. They never break their kiss. Their mouths still move against each other when Magnus opens his eyes again to glare at Malphas. He scrambles to collect his words.

“M-my leaving the summoning did not intend destruction. It was a simple error in the ceremony. Assuming mortals are more diligent in the future, it will not happen again.” The reassurance seems lost, though; Magnus has his hand down the back of Alec’s trousers now, his mouth groping its own path along pale skin, lingering on the meeting of bare flesh with the dark pigment of the shadowhunter’s deflect rune. Magnus has no care for Malphas’ story, the demon realises. He was doomed before he set foot inside the palace. There is no one in hell or on earth who could gain the king’s sympathy while the shadowhunter is around. The competition is futile. Who are they to earn favour in the face of Magnus’ most precious companion?

As quickly as anxiety pricks the demon’s skin, resentment burns it away, liquid fury mixing with ichor in Malphas’ blood. Magnus’ reign may have the blessing of Asmodeus, but the warlock is far from deserving of the throne. He is weak, distracted. There is a lapse in his judgement and his power, just the right shape for this shadowhunter, this  _ nephilim _ , to slip through. He forgoes his loyalty to his demon half in favour of worshipping some mortal brat. A gruesome angel with no right to the throne, no intelligence to advise. The Lightwood takes half his throne and Magnus allows it.

What king is this?

As the heretical thoughts fill Malphas’ mind, something in the palace shifts. The ground trembles beneath them, sand vibrating in a billion individual shudders, countless epicentres shaking the building until Malphas’ knees slip and he falls to the side, grasping helplessly at the rumbling earth. The fracturing movements climb the walls, riding the grains that form the architecture, until the roof begins to cave. Malphas flails as sand begins to fall. But as is descends, it curves. The air collects it, shapes it, directly it towards the back of the chamber where the doors remain open. As the demon watches the earth piles against it, seemingly never-ending, until the last of his view of Edom disappears. He looks up. The ceiling remains unchanged, as though nothing has ever disturbed it.

“Well.”

A pair of boots crush the ground beside his head. Blue flame flickers against Malphas’ pupils, forcing his eyes shut. They do not remain that way for long. A swift kick to the side has him curling over and raising his gaze. Magnus stands over him, eyes narrowed, expression cruel.

“I must say I’m disappointed, Malphas. Treason doesn’t suit you. I would have thought you had better taste.” He lets out a deep sigh. “And this on top of the matter of the mortals. Mass demonic imprint is hardly a good look. What do you think, Alexander?”

The shadowhunter is alone on the throne now, but he seems no less comfortable. He lounges easily against the gem, legs spread carelessly, fingers drumming on the chair’s deep red arm. His hair is a mess - the result of clever warlock fingers - and his face is flushed. Yet despite his dishevelment, there is an intensity to the man that Malpas has never seen before. His brow is unfurrowed but his expression one of evaluation. He parts his mouth as he contemplates, his tongue swiping out to wet his lips. He smirks.

“Interesting that a major demon as old as yourself would fail to recognise an inaccurate rune. You must have been summoned, what, at least one thousand times before this? And yet you claim to not have noticed the details.”

His voice is low, dangerous. Tongue sharp as a blade. He looks directly into Malphas’ eyes, and for the first time the demon wonders if Edom is truly Alec Lightwood’s calling. Then the shadowhunter looks away. Looks at Magnus. Something passes between them.

Magnus flicks his hand, and pain shoots up the tendons of Malphas’ clawed feet. It burns his scales and simmers his blood. Something solidifies in the veins, and he opens his mouth to scream, but before he can the pain ascends. It crawls up his ankles, into his legs, and behind it it leaves nothing. Not relief, but nothing. Malphas feels his flesh disintegrate, crack and crumble away beneath him. He tries to struggle, but he cannot move. He can only shriek as his body turns to sand, piles beneath him, until he is but agony and a wailing head. Then that too melts to earth.

Magnus watches the spell work boredly. Once the screaming as subsided, he pushes a boot into the new mound of sand, kicks it a little until the ground is evened out, the former demon spread across the chamber. Blue magic ignites around his boot and the dust disappears. He turns on his heel and returns to the throne. Alexander rises, only to return to his original seat once Magnus has taken his place on the garnet. He settles in the warlock’s lap, one arm slung behind Magnus’ back. A brown hand comes to rest of his cheek. Alexander follows its movement and leans in to kiss Magnus again.

Edom shudders around the reign of its two kings.

**Author's Note:**

> This was... a struggle to finish. I'm not particularly happy with it, but at least it's done and posted. Maybe some day I'll return to this concept and actually do it well.
> 
> Title from In the Devil's Territory by Sufjan Stevens.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://thattrainssailed.tumblr.com/).


End file.
